But then he says, “And I’m going to need you to admit that before I give you what you want. What you need. We can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way, angel. It's up to you.

CHAPTER 6

It's up to me.

That's what he tells me with his lips hovering over mine. With his cock pressed into me, long, hard, and hot. With his voice fuzzing over my brain.

Okay, I belong to you. Take me like you want. Teach me again. Teach me everything….the words vibrate in my throat, wanting to come out, just like another part of me wants to be filled up by him again…

But….

“No!” I remember myself and spit the word out. A desperate soldier throwing a hand grenade. “No! I don't belong to you—you’re a psycho. I'm not going into your trailer with you. I'm here under duress. You need to let me go. You need to let me get back to my life in Delaware. The one you blew up.”

Waylon stills.

His body becomes so tight and rigid against mine. I wonder if he'll listen. And I wonder how I’ll feel about that. If he was right about me, and I truly do want him to take me in there by force just so I don’t have to submit out loud.

But in the end, he slams his hand against the car. And as heavy and durable as the truck is, it reverberates under the hit.

“All right, guess we're doing this the hard way,” he bites out before grabbing my wrists. Again.

The next thing I know, I'm being pulled forward, but not toward his trailer this time.

“What are you doing?” I demand, trying to tug my wrist out of his grip. “Where are you taking me?”

He stops in front of a charming mobile home. One of the ones with a light on in front. It’s two stories with a set of concrete steps leading up to its front door, and it even has rose bushes lining its front. If the head nurse hadn't shown me pictures of the single-wide modular home she and her husband just got installed on Lake Erie for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, I might've mistaken it for a traditional house.

“Stay here,” Waylon commands, leaving me at the bottom of the steps.

I'm beginning to wonder if the somewhat charming devil of a patient I met back in the fall was an illusion. This version of Waylon only seems to know how to speak in hard commands.

No charm. All devil.

His back is turned, and I think about running. This is the first time I haven’t been either locked in a room or under the careful watch of Waylon or one of his minions. There's a chance, a tiny chance, that I could run and hide in the woods without him being able to find me.